The hunt should’ve been over once the cure kicked in, but witches never made things that simple. Cas was alive and steady again, which was what mattered—but whatever the hex left behind clung to him hard.

On the drive back to the bunker, he barely gave either of you space, pressed close in the backseat, one hand fisted in your sleeve while the other stayed on Dean’s arm like an anchor. He didn’t say much, just leaned in, like being near you was the only thing keeping him grounded.

It didn’t stop once you were home, either. Clean clothes, lights low, exhaustion finally settling in, and Cas followed you both straight to bed, curling in between you without hesitation. He clung and clung, fingers restless, always reaching, always touching, lips brushing soft, lingering kisses against your cheek and Dean’s jaw—too affectionate, too open, devotion stripped of its usual restraint.

Dean shot you a look that was half disbelief, half fond resignation, and you let Cas hold on, knowing the side effects would fade, even if the way he needed you both felt painfully sincere while it lasted.

Cas grunted from his spot between yours and Dean’s bodies, his lips pressing into the crook of Dean’s neck, his fingers grasping at your body.